


Mary mary, how contrary {and other rhymes for a desolate heart}

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: ?? - Freeform, ??? - Freeform, A bunch of fucked shit, Attempted Murder, Burning, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Child Abuse, Dissociation, Fire, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's venting on fictional characters o clock!, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Murder, Self-Harm, Violent Thoughts, Would you look at the time!, alot of headcannons, protect Mary but also stop Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 23:20:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10424067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: con·trar·yadjectiveˈkäntrerē/1. opposite in nature, direction, or meaning. "he ignored contrary advice and agreed on the deal"2. perversely inclined to disagree or to do the opposite of what is expected or desired. "she is sulky and contrary where her work is concerned"nounˈkäntrerē/1. the opposite. "the magazine has proved that the contrary is true"2. LOGIC a contrary proposition.Mary was real, she had to be. (At least she told herself that)[Or; in which Mary wants to live a happy life, and desire makes people do drastic things.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yellow roses: Joy, Gladness, Friendship, Delight, Promise of a new beginning, Welcome Back, Remember Me, **Jealousy**

Mary could not see. It was dim, her eyes still just being painted on, as music drifted to her recently shaded ears. It made her feel warm, like a beginning of something, as her fathers brush moved on her canvas. She was happy.

 

 

Her father brought her flowers sometimes, humming and smiling with a girl that looked remarkably like her, placing them around her golden frame as he called her his masterpiece. She swelled at the praise, glad. She longed to reach out and hug him, but in this moment his kind words and gentle hands were enough.

 

 

Whenever her father would ruffle the girl who looked just like hers hair she would feel a pang of sadness. She wasn't quite sure why.

 

He visits her less now, and when he does it's sad, a far off look as he mutters apologizes and sorrows to her. She hasn't seen her double, recently.

 

She never sees her double again, and instead watches as her father deteriorates. His purple hair gets far more grey, eyes dulling. He doesn't even cry anymore, just vacantly look out at her. Sometimes he'd get angry upon seeing her, shouting about her mocking him, liquor on his breath. Any other paintings he paints now are filled with grief and madness. Mary was scared, her father was vanishing right before her.

He almost burned her, once, a match with a flame coming far too close for comfort. Sometimes Mary wondered if he even knew she was really there.

 

 

  
One day he never came back, not really. Mary didn't understand, she didn't get why he tied a noose to the ceiling and hooked his neck through it. Why wasn't he responding to her?

Sometime after, Mary awoke to sound of shuffling. Crying and horrified gasps of her mother– or at least, she thinks it's her mother– and a blur of phone calls to cops. Soon there was a lot of people in her home, she couldn't see what they were doing but when they were finished her father was gone.

Her mother looked towards her, hatred and hurt in her eyes.

"This is all _**your**_ fault! You're the reason why he _left_ me!"

And Mary's world came crashing down.

 

 

 

The other paintings in the gallery didn't like her very much. They either looked at her with contempt or envy. She was known as either the painting that caused her beloved father's death, or as his unworthy masterpiece. She felt trapped, glares and hushed whispers being directed at her. The other works always, always, got in the way of her and happiness. She was lonely.

  
The lady's didn't blame her. The lady in red, yellow, blue, green, none of them blamed her. They reached out, lonely sadness motivating them, as they destroyed everything they touched when looking for salvation. Mary felt like she understood that. She spent years, trying to figure out how to deal with them without getting injured in the process. Their desperate clawing, the desire to latch onto something and hold it close, was one they followed almost blindly. So she told them, she was here, right here, she wasn't going to leave them. She calmed their blind thrashes and desperate attempts, if only for a moment. But it wasn't enough, for either of them.

In the process of this, she learned that if her rose or painting is hurt, so is she. Sometimes she'd stare at her rose, hands tempted to pick off the petals just to feel the pain. It was a morbid curiosity, she supposed, but she always wondered what would happen if she played a game of _loves me loves me not._ She knew the vases healed her, so she didn't see a problem with it. Still, somehow, she was still always to afraid to try it.

She read books. All of them she could find, she'd read and reread, trying to make the jumble of letters and words make sense. The listening ear in the library always listened and helped her–even if it wasn't a very good companion in some ways, she was grateful. She learn that humans can bleed, real things can bleed in this fabricated world made from her father's madness. She wonder if she could bleed. She was real, _right?_  
She didn't know.

She wrote a book once, crayon scribbled as a story played out, _careless carrie_. She couldn't decide if she was carrie or the friend—was she hollowed out just for a simple key? Gutted and lifeless? Or is what she looked for, a key to her freedom, did it come with a price? Was she the one holding the knife?

She couldn't tell. The crayon on her hand smears till she can't even see the original picture—can't see herself.

She was just as careless as Carrie. Ha.

 

  
She decided try and make friends, like how her dad made her. Blue fabric was hand stitched, red buttons shining. They were cute, or at least she thought so. She didn't really have much reference for what was considered cute or not, but the dolls were kind to her, so she decided that made them cute. Once when stitching up fabric, she wondered what would happen if she were to prick her finger. Would she bleed?

It looked like blood, she thought, flowing from her fingers. Yes, she was real, she was real. But upon further look, it was far to bright to be actual blood. Mary licked it, hoping beyond hope that it wasn't what she thought.

It was red paint.

She screamed.

 

She was more careless when sewing the dolls now, smudges red on the edges of the sems, hands pricked more often than not with her sewing needle. She made more and more dolls, never quite feeling satisfied. They were concerned, the ones she did make, with how mangled her hands were becoming, and how for days she'd do nothing but sew.

“I want out.” She said one day, abruptly. Her hollow far off look reminding some paintings far to much of her father. “I want out!” A gleam of sadness entered her eyes, as she looked lost. She didn't know what to do. She didn't even know how long it's been.

 

 

She tried everything, but it was no use. She was getting desperate. She wanted out of this empty house of madness, devoid of love and filled to the brine with contempt. She wanted away from their harsh glares and cruel words, away from the labyrinth of pain she's still yet to have grown accustomed to.

Desperate people do desperate things.

 

She was still just a kid.

 

 

  
She pulled them in randomly, letting the gallery guide them to her. She didn't really know who she picked, nor how many. Ideally it would be one of two people, someone to take her place in this damned gallery, and maybe a friend her age to accompany her on the long road. She has never had one of those — never had a friend, really.

  
She felt bad for whoever would take her place, really, she hoped that the person was cruel so it would be easier but, no matter what, she wanted out. _She wanted out._

She new it wasn't right but she didn't have any other options.

She just wanted out already.

 

 

She tried to hate Gary. And to some extent, maybe she did. He was trying to steal ib from her, or at least it felt like it, and he hurt the gallery lighter in hand. So she tried to hate him. But he looked just like her dad, and even if he wasn't she didn't know how to feel. Father abandoned her—he loved her—this isn't—this isn't even him. She hesitated. She could have just killed him there, instead of separating him from ib, but. She found she couldn't.

She tried to hate him even more for that.

 

 

  
Why wouldn't he just die?

 

 

She asked ib what she'd do if only two people could get out. Ib said she'd sacrifice herself.

She couldn't possibly allow that.

 

 

She loves ib, she thinks. She's kind, and caring. She wants to be with ib, together as maybe sisters, or friends, or– or– well, anything, really. She just wanted to be close to her. She's unsure, wanting to reach out but afraid she'd hurt ib just like the lady's. What would ib do if she knew she was just a painting? Would she redact her love? Be frightened of her? _Abandon her?_

Mary was scared.

She was so very scared.

 

 

Gary found out, exposing all her secrets and laying her bare. The listening ear in the library, notified her when he found her book. She laughed. Panicked, laughing, laughing—ha ha, all her carefully laid plans falling apart, would you look at that. Really, it was funny.

So fucking funny.

She was tired.

She was so so tired.

She wanted all this to stop. She wanted out.

 

She didn't understand why ib was running, was she truly that scary? What had she done to deserve this?! Really, she hated it, hated everything here—she hated this! She wanted out! _She wanted out!_

She just…

She just wanted out!

She didn't care anymore, what she had to do, get out, get out of her way! _She wants out!!_

 

She stabbed the mannequin head over and over again.

**“In my way. _Get out of my way!”_**

  
She was going to get out. No matter **what**.

 

 

She laughed, maybe sounding like all the other paintings. She laughed and laughed and laughed, smiling with childish charm bent backwards, twisted by pain.

Why did ib choose Gary over her?

 

 

 

 

It was becoming easier to hate Gary

 

 

 

  
“M-Mary? A-Are you ok?”

“Marrrrryyyy-! _M-ar-rry_! That's _mee_! I'm fine! I'm fine! _I'm perfectly fine!_ Ahah!”

 

  
Ib was scared of her.

 

 

 

 

She wondered if ib would bleed, what her blood would look like. Would it be as red as that rose in her hand? The one she _stole?_

Mary didn't like where her thoughts were headed.

She was breaking.

The paints in her head where smearing, melting, bleeding out like water color. It was painful.

 

 

People said there was beauty in pain– in _tragedy_.

 

  
A part of mary wanted to live.

A part of Mary wanted to curl up and wither.

Like a rose would.

 

 

Mary wasn't sure what death was, except that it meant leaving. She didn't want to leave without being able to feel the sun. She didn't– she didn't want to die.

 

 

 

  
Mary was mad. They were here, in her room, her room, how **dare** they. Get out get out get out get out. This was her only save space _get_ _out!_ It wasn't safe anymore not safe not safe she–

She had to get them out she had to make it save again she–

Before she knew it her pallet knife was in her hand.

 

Mary knew how to hurt people, knew that if you caused one enough pain they'd leave. She knew that when the roses are injured they are too. She wasn't– she was just trying to get them out.

But

Ib ran to her painting– and– and–

 

Burning was painful. It was even more painful that ib was doing it.

  
No matter what, she couldn't hate ib.

 

 

  
She wasn't human, humans bleed blood. She had a fabricated heart, just a cheap imitation. Always a imitation.

A living painting has no place in the world of humans

And humans have no place in the world of living paintings

  
She was doomed from the moment her dad put that noose around his neck

In the end she was just a painting, not even her fathers real daughter, she wasn't a real anything

How could she think she'd ever be a real girl?

 

 

 

  
Even still though, even still; she didn't want to die, not like this, not at the hands of _ib_.

  
But it never mattered what she wanted.

 

 

  
Her canvas burned, her strings cut. The puppet dissolved to ash.

**Author's Note:**

> Things not mentioned: Gary is a relative of the guertena family, which is why he reminds Mary of her father. He had a falling out with the part of the family he lived with, and as such cut off ties. However, upon learning that this exhibit was done by someone he was related to, he got curious, and came. I might write a fic on Gary later, if anyone wants. 
> 
> Other head cannons not directly shown it that ib is selectively mute, and Gary is a transboy.
> 
>  
> 
> I really should be working on my series but fuck me and my adhd ass


End file.
